The Curse of Desire
by Vimescarrot
Summary: A stranger stalks the streets of Ankh Morpork ... No surprises there. But this one's different.. Pleeease review. Flame to your hearts content. Unsure on what rating it should have, if you could help me out... Chapter 3 up. Suggestions welcome.
1. The Strangers Meet

Disclaimer: I own it all! Mwahahaha! Not really. I own nothing. Please don't take my rock away :-( 

It was just past 3 in the morning when the solitary figure wandered the streets of the Shades. He walked alone, and with no obvious weapons. This was almost the only reason he wasn't dead quite yet – he was being followed by at least a dozen suspicious-to-the-point-of-paranoid figures. The only people who safely walked the Shades at night were Assassins, seamstresses and the Agony Aunts. This one seemed male, and wore only a scruffy brown coat reaching to his feet, which no self-respecting Assassin would dream of wearing. The variety of unlicensed thieves, muggers and murderers were all waiting for another one of said people to do something.

Eventually, a figure detached itself from the shadows and walked confidently towards the individual. When she reached him, she whispered quietly in his ear, "I didn't know you were in the habit of walking such dangerous paths."

"It was the only way I could get your attention. Seemed to work." This caused a certain amount of extra curiosity in the shadowy figures. The young man sounded barely past the age of fifteen.

"Still, it was an unwise move. Had I not been following you..."

"You think I can't take care of myself?" The figure smirked to himself in the darkness.

"...If you would kindly let me finish...If I had not been following you, it may have had serious repercussions which would have had to be terminated at the earliest juncture. My...employers would not have approved. Such inconveniences would have come out of your own money."

"I see." The figure stopped. The woman, noticing his pause, stopped a few feet ahead, and turned.

"Damien? What's wrong?" She took a few steps towards him, then stopped in horror. She stared at the blood-covered arrowhead protruding from his chest.

Damien looked down with what appeared to be mild surprise on his face. Then he looked up and winked.

"Don't worry, miss..." he said vaguely, "...Happens all the time...Won't be a moment..." and, with a speed that surprised all of those following him, not least the one who had just shot him, he vanished into a side alley(1). There was a brief, organic sound, a sharp intake of breath, then the arrow landed on the street. This was followed by a series of scraping sounds, such as might be made by someone scratching their way up a wall with their fingernails(2). Then a running sound across the rooftops, a brief shadow as something leapt the relatively short distance from one rooftop to another, and a gurgle, followed by a dull thump. Another shadow, then Damien landed lightly on the cobbles, quickly hiding a thin blade about his person.

"Now...Where were we?" said Damien, as the figures behind him quickly fled into the shadows. Not even Assassins moved that fast.

"I don't believe we were." The young woman was doing her best to look unshaken.

"Well, you could at least tell me your name, miss...?"

"You can call me Miss Teatime, for now. But to business...You have prepared the meeting with the Patrician?"

"Of course. And you needn't be so nervous; it's not the first time I've been shot. And you don't need to refrain from asking so obviously, because I wouldn't dream of telling you how I survived that."

Miss Teatime blinked, and ran the past few sentences back in her head. "But how did you know I was going to ask you that?"

"You weren't. I did say you were _refraining _from asking. But any sensible person would want to know if their...employee...was a little more, shall we say, indestructible than they had planned."

"I don't know what you mean..."

"Come on. I know how the less..._official_ city business is run. Once you have what you need, you want to make sure everyone who knows about it is...out of they way. No loose ends."

Miss Teatime walked on in silence. Damien followed by her side.

"You can trust me, Miss Teatime. I won't tell a soul. But if I do find out that my allies were trying to kill me, it would be very unpleasant for them. Be aware that the one who just shot me is still alive, though he probably wishes he wasn't. Oh...and be careful. Anyone would think that you actually cared about me." He playfully mimicked the woman's voice. "'Oh, Damien, what's wrong?' Haha..."

Miss Teatime shivered. She had neither the liking nor the I-don't-care attitude towards death – amongst other things – that her older brother did...or had.

"See to the Patrician," she said coldly. "Do not worry. I will make sure that you are...free to go when you leave the city. If you wish to leave the city, that is. We will not bother you nor will you hear from us again unless we require your services once more." And with that Miss Teatime fled into the shadows to hide the panic in her face. Damien watched her go, his face impassive, as it always was when he did not wish others to see what he was thinking. After a while he wandered off into the shadows, too.

The arrow glistened in the moonlight.

(1)Though it has to be said, any alley that is more alley-like than most normal streets in the Shades would be hard to come by.

(2)Though in no way is it suggested that this is, in fact, what happened.


	2. Pubs

Disclaimer: Nope, unless Terry Pratchett died and left it to me, I don't own Discworld, just my little fic here.

It was three nights later, and Damien was drinking his third glass of wine. It had been a long night preparing to meet the Patrician, and he now had little over a week. He had everything ready, so now all that remained was to relax. So he had come to the one place where the socially different could truly be themselves.

The place was called Biers, and was run by a man who went by the name of Igor. Not even Damien had been able to find out why, so suspected that not even the man himself knew. A haze of vaporized alcohol hung over everything, but through the fog Damien saw bogeymen, zombies and even a few ghosts. There were also vampires and werewolves – unless he was very much mistaken, which he rarely was, one of the vampires worked for the local newspaper and a werewolf siting in a corner was a Watch sergeant. But these were not his main interests. There was one woman sat in complete isolation at a table. She had pure white hair with a streak of black running through it, and even as Damien watched it began to change shape. She also had an apparently bottomless alcohol tolerance level – she had just ordered the most alcoholic legal drink in the bar and appeared to be suffering no ill effects. Well, two could play at that game.

Damien sauntered over to her. "Anyone sat here?"

She looked up, stared at him then shrugged. He sat down.

"I've never been one for indirectness," he said, "so I challenge you to a drinking contest. First one not to fall over wins."

The woman looked him up and down. "You're fourteen, kid. So just go away."

Damien felt something strange run through his body as she spoke these words. It was a familiar feeling – it was what he felt when he absorbed magical power to prevent it being used against him. But it hadn't worked in this universe – at least, it hadn't so far...

That wasn't the only odd thing. The woman in front of him appeared to be trying to look at her own mouth with considerable confusion.

Damien sighed. "I don't know what you tried to do to me just then, but I suggest you don't try again. That sort of thing just gets on my nerves. Another drink?" He picked up her empty glass without waiting for a reply and went over to the bar.

"Hey, Igor. Another one for me and another of whatever she was having." Igor handed over the drinks and Damien turned back to the woman.

To where the woman had been.

He sighed inwardly. Then he drank the drinks and left.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Damien consulted the list he had been given as he stepped out into the chilly breeze. He carefully made a note on it and then examined it. "Where to next? Hmm...The Bucket..."

He wandered off. It didn't take him long to find the Bucket. He went inside.(1)

Damien had been given this list as a challenge, from an old friend. Identify the average clientele of all of these bars in three days, they had said, and you get twenty dollars. Damien didn't really need the money, but he _did_ need the distraction. Besides, he intended to go somewhere during his wait anyway, and this was as good a place as any.

It was immediately obvious to him who the average customer was in _this_ bar, unless the owner was hosting a dress-up-as-watchmen party.

In the gloom, a dozen or so pairs of eyes watched Damien as he went to the bar and ordered a drink.

Damien had never been very comfortable around officers of the law. Guilds and so forth very rarely bothered with any sort of justice besides that of the physical variety, and Damien had long since learned that this was no reason to fear them. The Watch, on the other hand, specifically tried to _avoid_ killing you. Instead they captured you, locked you up and punished you. Damien had been fined twice and imprisoned an uncountable number of times before he had learned not to get on the wrong side of the Watch. He had been lucky once, though, and had been executed. It took him an hour to escape from the gallows, but it had been better than a month in prison.

Still, as far as he was aware he had not broken any laws in this city, so he did his best to relax. But after a few moments, a very tall man with bright orange hair walked over to him.

"Excuse me, sir. Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson, City Watch. How old are you?"

Damien stared blankly into his drink. Bugger, he thought to himself. With feeling.

"Er...How old is the legal alcohol consumption age around here?"

"Very funny, lad," said a voice from the corner. "I don't want my drinking disturbed. So go away and perhaps, just maybe we won't pursue this."

Captain Carrot leaned forward. "That's Commander Vimes," he whispered. "You had better do as he says. Please?"

Damien looked at the captain, glanced towards the voice in the corner and made a decision. He got up and left without a word.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The list came out of his pocket again. "Let's see...Biers...Bucket..." Damien paused, his face going blank and his eyes not moving. Then, with barely a sound, he keeled over into the mud. (2)

(1) I wish I could make this sentence more exciting, but there really isn't anything I can say about it.

(2)Well, as close to mud as makes no difference. No difference to those of a polite frame of mind, anyway. "Doggy doo" would not even approach what were Ankh-Morpork's streets after being lived in by people whose idea of sanitation was to make sure that the rubbish was _outside _the house.


	3. Saved by a Stranger

I've been updating quickly because I had all of the story, up to halfway through this chapter,written out already before I posted the story. Work will decelerate now. By quite some considerable amount.

Please read and review, and feel free to suggest where you would like the story to progress. I have no idea, myself - I don't even know what the "meeting" with Vetinari (mentioned in chapter 1) will actually be.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Damien's eyes flickered. He replayed the events of the previous night slowly in his mind. What had happened...?

"Oh. You're awake."

Panic instantly gripped Damien. The voice had sounded female. He sat bolt upright, then clenched his teeth at the splitting fire that threatened to rip his head in two. He felt a pair of hands pushing him back down on the...yes, it was a bed.

"I'd advise against that," she said. "You've been drugged. Nasty stuff. By rights, you should be dead."

Damien took stock of his surroundings. He was in a house. That was all he could figure out before his eyes closed themselves against what felt like direct sunlight. He knew enough to tell that the curtains were closed, though.

"Have you got any idea who would want to kill you?"

"Plenty of people." Damien heard the bubbling and smell of something cooking. Since there were no more questions, he laid back and tried to piece together the remainder of last night.

"What...happened?"

"I don't know. I just turned a corner to find you unconscious outside the Bucket. I assumed that you were drunk, until I noticed that you hadn't been mugged. I thought that was somewhat suspicious, so I brought you here. Want something to eat?"

"That wasn't really a question, was it?"

"Nope. Here." A bowl of soup(1) was pressed into his hands and he was gently propped up on the pillows behind him. "You might want to open your eyes now."

Damien did so. The light that had seemed blinding so recently was now little more than a dull illumination. He stared down at the soup and blinked slowly. A spoon was handed to him.

"Eat up. I'll be back in a few minutes." The girl left the room.

Damien looked around. A general culinariety around him suggested he was in a kitchen. He swallowed a mouthful of soup. It wasn't actually that bad.

He had long since finished when the girl returned. Now that Damien had had a chance to look at her properly, he realized that she was roughly that same age as he was, with sparkling green eyes and shoulder-length green hair. He tried not to stare too much. The colour matched her eyes almost exactly.

"You can ask, you know," she said. "I don't bite."

"They charge extra for that," he said automatically. He regretted it almost instantly, not least because of the stinging slap she had given him. Damien stared blankly into space for a moment.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to say that. I just...I'm not feeling myself at the moment."

She smiled at him. "Don't worry. Just make sure it doesn't happen again, alright?" Damien nodded. The girl sat on the edge of his bed. "Good. Now, what's your name, mystery boy?"

Damien sighed. He didn't like giving his name to strangers. On the other hand, she had rescued him from any one of the potential hazards of an Ankh-Morpork street, which no-one else he knew would have done. To most people, he would have just been another victim of Ankh-Morpork's exciting and varied lifestyle.

"My name is...You can call me Damien." Inwardly, Damien cursed himself.

"Oh, I can, can I? So what's your _real_ name?"

Damien sighed. "You wouldn't be able to pronounce it and I probably don't have time to tell you all of it...What time is it?"

The girl glanced up at the wall. "About...I'd say...half past two?"

Damien nodded. "Good. I've got some time then...Thank you for your hospitality, but I really should be going."

She gave him a long stare. "When did we become Mr Diplomatic all of a sudden? I'm not some foreign ambassador who's put you up for the night. I'd like you to think of me as a...friend."

She seemed genuine enough, but something about this girl unnerved Damien. The whole situation seemed slightly suspicious. "I've spent a lot of time in adult company," he said, "and I've had to learn to pick up some habits..." he trailed off. There was definitely something wrong. He risked another headache and sat up, turning slowly to look around the room. There was no-one there.

The girl watched him, then shrugged. "All right, if that's the way you want it. You can go if you like. But watch out next time. I won't be around to help you out. Anyway, you've missed your appointment." She got up and turned towards the door leading to the next room.

"Wait...how did you know I had an appointment? And what makes you think I've missed it? I still have nearly an hour to –"

"You said you still had time, I assume you were meeting with someone. And you've missed it because it was probably yesterday. You've been asleep for over a day and a half." She opened the door and went through.

"What? But – Hey, wait!" the door closed as he stumbled towards it, his head throbbing and vision dimming. He paused for a moment to clear his head, then turned the handle.

The door was locked.

Damien considered trying to break it down, but it probably wasn't worth it. He wasn't out to make enemies just yet and he didn't need the Watch after him. He turned to the other door in the room and tried it. It opened out on to a street in the Shades. He stepped out and closed the door behind him.

Thoughts were clamouring for his attention. His head still had a dull yet insistent throb as he walked down the complex network of alleyways considering the past few conscious hours. He had left the Bucket, and then...what? He was immune to death from anything including poisons, and so far the worst symptoms he'd ever had from any substance was unpleasant, at worst(2), so what had managed to knock him out?

There was the girl, too. "Wanting to help" didn't convince him. He checked his pockets – nothing had been touched, nothing taken away. She hadn't taken off any of his clothing, even the coat. She hadn't attempted to keep him there for any length of time. So why had she given him a bed to sleep in, for over a day? Could she have been the one who drugged him? Then why not keep him asleep? He had eaten the soup without much argument – he mentally slapped himself for that; he shouldn't have been so careless – and she could have spiked it. She appeared to have no ulterior motive – but Damien knew from experience that in Ankh-Morpork there was no such thing.

He sighed. Hopefully, it would all look clearer after –

A figure dropped down in front of him.

"Gimme some cash or I kill you. Fair deal?" enquired the shadow. A gust of bad breath accompanied a gravelly voice from the direction of the hunchbacked shadow's concealed mouth.

Damien looked at him for a moment. Something shiny appeared in his hand.

"It's silver," said the shadow, managing to convey a grin even without showing his face.

"I'm not a werewolf." Damien eyed the silver object in front of him. "What is it – some sort of bizarre sex toy?"

"Har, har. It's a _stake_, boy. Soaked in holy water, too."

"I'm not a vampire, either."

This seemed to nonplus the shadow. "Then what _are _you, little boy?"

"No, I'm not that either." Damien half-turned as if to walk away, but span round and rammed the figure against the wall, one hand on his throat, the other calmly in his pocket.

"Look, someone just saved my life, so one good turn deserves another. _I'll_ let you go without pushing your head into the wall until it splits, and in return, _you_ leave me alone and spread the word that I don't appreciate my walks being disturbed. Understand?"

Though being suspended against a wall by someone a foot smaller than him, the man managed a sneer. "You think you're tough, boy? My friends could teach you –"

Damien pushed his hand against the throat. The man gurgled. Damien continued pushing until there was an audible crack. Then he let go. The figure slumped to the ground.

"Some people never learn..." Damien continued down the alleyway and walked to his current residence. Despite being not seeing anyone the whole way there, he couldn't shake off the feeling he was being followed.

(1) Because it's better than calling it grease.

(2) It had involved having to find accommodation with highly porous flooring and the purchase of a number of herbs. It got so desperate at one point that he had had to invest in a patent Dibblomatic Cure-All, which had worked, if you didn't mind the side effects. Fortunately, having demons fight a war inside his intestines for an hour or so didn't particularly bother Damien.


End file.
